


Don't Try Suicide

by Crazythatcounts



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Suicide, Suicide Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 08:32:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5241680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazythatcounts/pseuds/Crazythatcounts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian was told not to kill himself over Jim Moriarty. So instead, he's going to kill himself for him. </p><p>TW Suicide</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Try Suicide

It had been 6 months, ten days, eight hours, four minutes and thirty nine seconds since he’d heard it. He hadn’t heard much, of course, just the bang of a gun going off, didn’t know what it meant at the time. But he knew what he heard, and now a-days it was like the date stamp of the moment carved into the back of his eyes with a ballpoint pen, projected everywhere on the world around him – he didn’t need to have heard it all to hear it in his mind. The click of the hammer, the slide of the trigger. The smell of fresh powder and blood. The sound of the bullet leaving the barrel, spiraling towards its destination, colliding with the roof of the man’s mouth with a sickening sort of squelch, making its way through bone – crack – and brain – squish – and back out the other slide with a crack and a squelch and a whisper of metal against the wind. He didn’t need to have seen it to see it in his head, those eyes, those overly large eyes, the ones that had captivated him from the earliest second, drew him in like a hypnotist, like a puppet master bringing his Pinocchio to life. Those eyes he loved and hated, saw swell black from his own punches, red from someone else’s. The eyes that could be so cruel and so hateful and so-so manic that even the worst offenders in the world would be jealous – those eyes slipping away, the life of them leaving, growing dull and boring, so boring.

 

He’d always hated boring.

 

That’s what Sebastian had become. Boring. The kill was no longer fun. He was a cat catching mice for no master. It wasn’t the same without Jim, without that purr or that lilt or that coo. That order to kill, that grin in his voice when he said it, _Sebby baby take out this one for me_. It was a hole in Sebastian’s world, a cavern, a fucking black hole, and like all good black holes it was sucking everything in, crushing it like the nightmares seemed to crush Sebastian’s lungs at night.

 

He’d tried to remove everything that reminded him of the man, but stopped when he realized he’d moved the entire flat into one corner to toss and there was nothing left.

 

What a fitting way to describe. Nothing left.

 

“I know what I promised you, you bastard.” He had a phone to his ear. He’d dialed Jim’s number, one last time. He still had it, first one, only one. Still texted him occasionally. No response, there never was. Now he was leaving a voicemail. A note. That’s what people did, right? “I know you made me promise. That if anything happened, I wasn’t to kill myself over you. I bet you planned this from the moment you told me that. Knew you’d die first. Well it’s not _fair_ , Jim!” He was screaming into the receiver. God, he was a mess. He wasn’t a soldier. He wouldn’t even consider himself Sebastian Moran anymore. That man took everything that Sebastian was and took it with him to his grave. He left a shell.

 

“It’s not _fair_! How _dare_ you do this to me, you bastard! I’m your bodyguard! I am you _fucking bodyguard!_ It’s my _job_ to die for you! I kill for you and I die for you, that’s the one job I had! I had _one fucking job_ and you go and make sure _I fuck it up royally_!” He couldn’t remember when the tears started, shattered his voice, broke his screams into a thousand pieces and littered the concrete with his anguish. “You are a heartless stupid little _shit!_ ” He breathed, gripped the phone, contained himself. No. No crying. Crying meant he was emotional and emotions meant he might turn back. There was no turning back. “But you weren’t done, were you? You fucker.”

 

And he laughed, and it was a bitter thing.

 

“You said don’t kill myself over you. “ He paused. “So I’m going to kill myself for you. It’s your birthday. At least, I think it’s your birthday. Would have been.” He forced himself to inhale again, laughing to bite back the bitter, angry, boiling tears. “So I’m giving you a present. I’d say I was sorry I ended up collateral damage, but… I’m not. Because this will be the best birthday present I ever gave you, boss. Better than the Westwood cat socks. Better than the bear I shot in Russia. Better than any of it.” He wiped at his face. “You’re getting fireworks this year, Jim. Your favorite kind. And this time I can enjoy them with you, wherever you are.” He sniffed, paused, nearly hung up, but stopped.

 

“Oh, and Jim? I love you, you psychotic bastard. See you in hell.” He ended the call, hung up the phone, and looked around him, taking a deep, final breath. He rigged up a foot pedal to his gun. One press and he’d get shot in the heart.

 

The Semtex vest would do the rest. He’d added fireworks, too. Big ones, round fat ones. Ones meant to go hundreds of feet in the air. Just for him.

 

His foot went down on the pedal, lips formed in a slightly out of tune whistle of Happy Birthday, the bullet soaring as he hit the last little note.

 

 

 

 

That night, it was the only thing on the news. The London Eye, exploding into millions and millions of pieces. Hundreds of causalities. Billions of dollars in damage. They still hadn’t found the source of it, but they knew it was on purpose.

 

One commenter had to add, though, that the fireworks were a nice touch.


End file.
